"I've likewise come to the conclusion," said he, "that a man's love is
like his hat, in that any peg will do to hang it on; also, in that the
proper and best place for it is on his own head. Oh, I assure you,
I vented any number of cheap cynicisms on the helpless roses! And
yet--will you believe it, Kathleen?--it doesn't seem to make me feel a
bit better--no, not a bit."
"It's very like his hat," she declared, "in that he has a new one
every year." Then she rested her hand on his, in a half-maternal
fashion. "What's the matter, boy?" she asked, softly. "You're always
so fresh and wholesome. I don't like to see you like this. Better